The dog threaded her way down the street, pausing occasionally to stop and sniff the air and the ground—and, presumably, for her master to catch up—and then bounded off again. He followed her down winding streets, through gardens and over flowerpots (the dog went over; Bradford went around) until finally Myrtle tore down a narrow street bounded on one side by a retaining wall for the small river.

The only illumination was the occasional gas lamp, but there was enough light for Bradford to see that a motorcar had crashed into the wall ahead. Its single working headlight shined on the shiny redhead of a person pinned, sagging, in front of it.

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 18

PHYLLIDA LOOKED UP SHARPLY WHEN SHE HEARD THE FEROCIOUS barking and snarling.

All at once, a broad-shouldered figure emerged from the shadows from behind the crashed motor and she tensed even more. Whoever it was, he was coming toward her.

Bradford’s pocketknife was in her hand—for she’d been contorted in a downward position, trying to cut her skirt away from where it had gotten pinned between motorcar and the wall—but it wouldn’t be much assistance against a ferocious dog or an attacker. Still, knife in hand, she prepared to meet whatever threat approached.

“Mrs. Bright!” cried a familiar voice, and Phyllida couldn’t control the surge of relief that washed through her.

“Bradford, is that you?” she called back, although by now she’d recognized the mop of dark fur. Its incessant barking didn’t sound quite as ferocious anymore, either, but it was still irritating. The dratted beast would wake the entire neighborhood—although, since no one had seemed to notice the loud motorcar chase and ensuing crash, perhaps that wasn’t a concern after all. Apparently, the villagers slept like the dead.

“Of course it’s me,” he replied. “What in the bloody—what on earth did you do?”

He paused, standing next to the crashed-up motorcar—which had hit the two jutting crenelations on either side of her, leaving Phyllida unharmed in the narrow little indentation—and folded his arms over his middle.

“What did I do?” Phyllida lost every word in her vocabulary for a moment and resorted only to impotent sounds of fury.

“I can see—and hear—that you’re uninjured. Were you planning to remain back there all night?” he asked, coming closer. He was holding a torch—quite possibly the one she’d dropped by St. Wendreda’s.

“My skirt is caught,” she managed to say, and brandished the pocketknife furiously at him—which, by the by, had taken quite a bit of maneuvering to remove from her pocket, for that was the side that had been pinned by the motor.

Bradford came closer and gave a low whistle. Myrtle continued to bark, drat the annoying beast.